


The Pessimistic Optimist

by nuka_cherries



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arno Dorian is a Sage, Arno Dorian is a Sage And Has No Idea, Assassin's Creed: Unity, Assassin's Creed: Unity Spoilers, Bisexuality, Cemeteries & Graveyards, Dead Kings DLC, Elise does not die, French Revolution, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29362836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuka_cherries/pseuds/nuka_cherries
Summary: A talented mortician, Adair “Adi” Henaf split his time between being an Assassin for the Parisian Brotherhood and working at the cemetery as needed. Life was boring between missions, burials and errands until the revolution strikes and his everyday life intertwines with the war and a new recruit, Arno Dorian.
Relationships: Arno Dorian/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	The Pessimistic Optimist

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I started this on May 17, 2020. First fic for Unity! I got the game last year and finished it in a month, but I still play it to this day for research and for fun. I love AC Unity and while the story is...messy, I think there was a lot of potential! So I wrote this fic!
> 
> So, first things first! We got a lot of NPCs/OCs! Mood board coming soon! 
> 
> \- My protagonist OC is Adair "Adi" Henaf aka "known by their nickname only" Adi. His faceclaim is Jordan Fisher.  
> \- Axeman's faceclaim is Pedro Pascal in his Game of Thrones look. The name I picked for him is Jeronimo Mereidas.  
> \- David's faceclaim is Charlie Cox. Daredevil alumni!  
> \- Simon Brasseur's faceclaim is Finn Jones, in his Game of Thrones look. Yes, we got some GOT alumni!  
> \- Another OC; Veronique's faceclaim is Adèle Haenel.  
> \- Icecream aka OC Sasha Weeks' faceclaim is Aaron Taylor-Johnson.

Élise de la Serre, daughter of the Templar grandmaster and heiress to the de la Serre grand fortune and estate, drank from the champagne flute with the fakest laugh and painted smile. Her eyes met his across the room. He sat by the window, with promise in his eyes. All the same tells that matched hers.

She finished the flute and gently set it down. She trailed through the crowd.

And Adi followed. 

Behind closed doors, they could truly be themselves. 

He followed, blended with the crowd and passing through the ballroom. The music was lively, and the nobles were dancing. A couple was joyfully dancing on the dance floor and loudly boasted the recent engagement. 

Love, he wondered idly. He could have had that in another life too. 

At the doorway, she looked over her shoulder once and met his eyes, skittish as she covered her smile with a dainty hand. This was nothing like the person he knew. It was all an act, to be so coy and bashful. She was giggled behind her palm when her true laugh was as bold as her red hair. 

Greetings from passing by guests distracted her, her presence surging as her voice carried out. She waved to a few strangers. She stopped to kiss the cheek of a cheerful brunette woman in a blue gown. She bid her farewells to partygoers just as fast as she said hello. Her eyes met his again.

Anticipation built up as he continued to walk in the shadows, as he traced her steps and evaded the crowd. He wasn’t one to keep anyone waiting, much less her.

His scarf was trusted as an accessory, a gas mask and as a way to blend into the crowd, was tucked in his collar. His hood was tucked inside his coat, removable for such an occasion as this. It was a risk to be without his hood, but he stuck to the corners.

Her dress trailed behind her. 

When he turned the corner into an empty room, he had the Phantom Blade at the ready. Yet, he didn’t see the ambush coming when a knife embedded itself in the wood next to his head. 

An arm stuck out and he slammed against a metal bracer, the action leaving his chest open and struck with a blow. 

He yelped out, fabric hot against his mouth as he wheezed out a cough. 

Élise pushed him on the ground, both knees stinging against his hips and one hand on his chest.

“I wouldn’t think so fast, Assassin!” Élise hissed out. 

His phantom blade was aimed at her throat, while her knife was pointed right above his throat.

This was  _ not  _ how he was going to die.

“Get off me, Red!” Adi exclaimed. 

She reeled back at the nickname. The free hand at his chest yanked up his scarf, then shoved it down at the realization. Had it been another Templar, Adi would have already killed them already.

But this was Élise.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said flatly. 

She let go of Adi’s robe and stood up, dusting off her gown like she hadn’t just tried to murder him. Though that was just their every interaction at this point. 

“Yes, who else would it be?” Adi asked, exasperated. He stowed his blade and stood up. So much for the friendly scuffle. 

He could feel looseness loose threads from the side of his robe. Ugh. Time to visit the tailor again.

There was tentative peace, but not because the two factions were suddenly friends. Tensions in Paris were rising, as were in Versailles. There was a change to the air that was coming.

“Why are you here, Monsieur Henáf?”

There was peace, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Why are you here, Mademoiselle de la Serre?” he asked, his come back weak but his resolve strong. He never really did know what to say to her in these interactions.

“Well, this is my party,” Élise said. 

“Is it your birthday?” Adi asked. “Happy birthday. Are you turning a hundred?”

Élise narrowed her eyes and did not take the joke. She crossed her arms. “Are you here to kill my father?” she asked.

Oh. So that’s why she was tense.

“No, Red. I’m here on an errand,” Adi said. “Irrelevant things, to someone of your status.”

“Oh.”

“I would not be here for a party willingly,” Adi said. 

“I thought you liked parties.”

“As if. Small-talk about the weather, about pretty gowns, expensive wine...”

“Then, I take it this is not your favorite type of place,” Élise said. 

“God no. But I don’t want Paris to starve,” Adi said. “Do not worry, it won’t cause any interference to the actions or plans of your cult. Our only coincidence is this location.”

“How sentimental. You should form a club.” 

"That might be the worst idea yet,” Adi said. “But you are quite tense. On with it, then. Do you think someone is out for you?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because if someone were to be after you tonight, it would not be my friends,” Adi said. “Even if my alliance would imply otherwise.”

They had had their run-ins before and it always started with a scuffle. But Adi always chose not to fight. While he did not admire the Templars, he still did not believe in spilling needless blood. Élise was an enemy, but not a threat. 

Like the handful of interactions, their first had been a meeting by chance when he was simply a stranger and had offered words of comfort after a memorial service of her close friend during a terrible winter. It was before he became an Assassin, before he knew that she was a Templar.

But she stowed her sword the first time they interacted. But fate crossed their threads. And they kept running into each other ever since.

And with the growing tensions in France, he was more focused on the unrest that was shaking the city up. 

As was Élise too. 

“Well, I would not like to talk about that,” she huffed out and crossed her arms.

“Suit yourself. I’m on my way out anyway,” Adi said. 

“You look nice.”

“What’s that?”

“You are quite nice to look at,” Élise said. 

“Well, merci. You are quite beautiful yourself too. It almost makes up for the terrible personality.”

Élise finally laughed out loud.

“Oh, fuck you.” 

Adi waved his farewell and jumped out to the terrace, disappearing into the night. 

* * *

The return trip to Paris did not take long in the carriage, the roads mostly smooth Adi as rode back. He studied the invoice’s contents of food shipments from Versailles and to Paris. He read over the lines and numbers and did not recognize any name from the briefings and dossiers. 

And he still made no sense of it. 

Versailles had always been Templar territory, what with the Assassin presence wiped out nearly ten years prior in calculated hits. He knew about the history. Had read about it and studied it before he entered the field.

“Who killed him?”

“It wasn’t us,” David said. “To my knowledge, de la Serre was not one of our targets."

“To your knowledge? David, you’re the bookkeeper. You should know this!”

“And I can attest that he was not on the list,” David deadpanned. 

“Obviously the Templars won’t care about that,” Jéronimo Mereidas said. His arms were crossed, hood off and gaze as sharp as his axe. “Well? Who killed him?” he demanded. 

“Since when do we solve the murders of Templars?” Véronique asked. 

“Since their panic means more of them attacking us, my dear Vero. So. Fess up! Who killed him?”

“Ask Adi, he was the only one who was at the party in the first place.”

“In that case,” Jeronimo turned to face Adi. “Adi, you fucked up!”

“I just got here,” Adi said. “What are you on about?”

“Grand Master de la Serre is dead.

“What?!” Adi exclaimed. “Since when?!”

“Tonight at the gala in Versailles. The one you were at.”

“You think I killed him?” Adi exclaimed. “That’s outrageous!”

“You were the only one of us there,” Jéronimo said. 

“Oh, so I was the only attendee at the gala where de la Serre was murdered,” Adi stated. “You caught me, Jéronimo,” he held the back of his hand to his forehead, feigning like he was about to faint. “Twas I who  _ obviously  _ killed Grand Master de la Serre because they threw a gala for me and him only.” 

“...Okay, you have a point.”

“Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?!” 

“If only all assassination missions were that easy,” Sasha Weeks mused. 

“Peace, peace, everyone!” Mentor Mirabeau called out, standing above them in his perch of the Great Hall. “I have received word that de la Serre’s murderer was at the scene and promptly arrested. Our brother’s presence is merely a random event of consequence.”

Adi blinked at the wording. Random event of consequence. Now  _ there  _ was a phrase.

“Now, go in peace,” Mirabeau said. “Go to sleep. It’s late. We have work to do tomorrow.”

The scene dispersed and the Council left, as did the Assassins that had stumbled out of their beds. The safe house assassins waved farewells and retreated into the catacombs.

“Well, that’s that. Anyways,” Jéronimo turned to Adi. “You wanna get a drink? To celebrate your successful mission.”

That was fast.

“It was hardly a mission, more of a fool's errand,” Adi shut the gate behind him and emerged to the tunnels that led to the stairs by the river. “As if Mirabeau doesn’t meet with the Templars four times a month.”

“So, no drink?”

Adi snorted. “Of course I’ll get a drink. It’s on the Brotherhood’s tab anyway.”

* * *

Though it was almost midnight, there was still activity in the Café-Theatre. The ruins of it anyways. It was hard to believe that once upon a time, the place was a jewel and a major landmark. 

Some of the Assassins had switched shifts and joined Adi in the café.

He knew the routes of the catacombs before he was stationed to the Café. It had almost been a month of residency in the semi-sound attic, but he supposed it had to do with rising rank and his frequency to do side errands that pertained to the theatre. Madame Charlotte must have put in a good word for him. 

Not that it mattered much. The attic/sun room where he resided and the café were the only decent parts remaining of the once grand place other than the leaking café. 

Yet the large dining room was lively, candles and lanterns newly lit. Jerónimo, Veronique and Sasha sat at the table. Brasseur was in the bar, filling jugs of ale to hand around along with bread and sliced apples. It was tradition and a pastime to drink after a mission and, well. Gossip.

“Adi!” Brasseur took a seat across from Adi and handed him his beer. “So, do tell. What happened at the party?”

“If you’re asking if there was any Templar torture, no,” Adi drank from his beer. “There was no Templar torture.”

“That’s bullshit! They used to do it during the Inquisition. I know it,” Brasseur said.

He had been adamant of his theory.

“Brother, why would the Templars be torturing someone at a gala?” Sasha asked. 

“They save that for Easter mass,” Jerónimo added. He filled his mug with ale and then refilled Veronique’s. 

Brasseur rolled his eyes. He stuck out his tongue, for good measure.

“It was a soiree for Élise de la Serre,” Adi supplied. “A typical Templar party in Versailles."

“So, a party in Versailles,” Jeronimo concluded.

The Assassin presence had been wiped out nearly a decade now. How it happened, he only heard echoes of. 

“Who was at the party?” Brasseur asked. 

“Every Templar in Versailles’s vicinity,” Adi stated. “You should have seen it. It was a walking convention of corruption with every aristocrat in the city. I'm lucky I got out alive.”

“I’ve never seen a poor man be a Templar.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, one dead Templar is always better, but--”

“Do not speak ill of the dead,” Adi said. “Even if they are our enemy.”

“Oh, yet you speak ill of me,” Jerónimo blew a raspberry. “Get off the high horse, Adair. You’re a mortician turned assassin. You deliver death as much as we do.”

Adi chose not to respond to that. 

Because he had a point. 

“I’m not too surprised about Mirabeau’s reaction,” Veronique said. “You have to admit that the murder of our sworn Templar enemy in the same place you were at earlier does not look too good. But now, the Templars are going to be scrambling,” she said. “Which is more work for us to cover our tracks in case they lash out.”

“Right, because the French Templar Order is  _ so  _ good about communicating to their own about change,” Sasha shook his head. Strands of straw-blonde hair fell out of his tie. He tucked them behind his ear. “Jero, do you remember when they disbarred Germain and their agents hadn’t an idea?” he asked. “It was a mess.”

A bucket was collecting leaks from the roof from the earlier drizzle that had made its way from Paris to Versailles. Somewhere out there, an aristocrat in an expensive suit ran from the rain. And Adi would be lying if he said the mental image did not bring him some amusement. 

“I’ll tell you what’s a mess,” Jerónimo jerked his thumb to the ceiling. “This place. It’s one storm away from falling into itself. No offense, Madame.”

Charlotte took a seat at the table across them and put her feet up in the chair. “Oh, none taken, dear. You only speak the truth. I’m afraid the rain rotted away some of the wood outside” 

“Charlotte, you must slow down,” Veronique said. 

Charlotte waved her concern away. “Don’t worry. It was nothing more than just emptying the rain buckets into the garden,” she said. “Brandon and Augustin took care of the heavy lifting earlier before the rain swept over.”

“Why not tear this mess down already and just turn this mess into a plaza? Eh? It would be easy and less miserable than this,” Jerónimo said.

“Then there goes my room,” Adi said.

Jeronimo waved his hand. “ _ Detalhes _ ,  _ detalhes _ ,” he mused. Details, details.

The preference for outdoor seating for Jerónimo had come from surviving the earthquake in Lisbon. He always spoke of it in comparison to the near crumbled state of the Cafe-Theatre. It was enough to have some decent living areas for the Assassins in the house across, but all Jerónimo extended his presence to was the cafe itself for a drink and a warm meal. He did not step near the rubble.

He had confessed to Adi that the earthquake was why he did not step foot in the cathedral above the other hidden entrance. How poignant that the earthquake struck while he was in mass to cause him to no longer be a believer.

“Even if we were to turn it to a plaza, we’d need an architect, a steward and a miracle worker to fix this mess,” Charlotte said. 

“With what money?”

“I am sure Most Dear Mirabeau could open up his checkbook,” Brasseur mimed himself untying a purse, only to throw an invisible coin across the table. “It’s worthless to even ask him. He never comes up here!”

“We’re too low of a class for him outside the meeting hall,” Veronique quipped. “A mentor in name only.”

“Who killed him, anyway?” Adi asked. 

“Who killed who?”

“De la Serre,” Adi said. 

“Oh! Word is that his step-son did it,” Sasha said. “Stabbed in the courtyard with witnesses.”

“That’s dramatic,” Jerónimo said. “I was expecting that he drank spoiled wine--or I don’t know, someone getting stabbed in the balcony of an opera house to be discovered halfway through the play.”

“That’s very specific,” Veronique said.

“Non, but…Jeró’s got a point. That’s just aristocrats,” Brasseur said. “They don’t like to get their hands dirty. But your kid killing you in cold blood in the middle of your own party?” he shook his head and downed his ale. “It’s always your own that gets to you.”

“Think it was an inside job?”

“Probably,” Jerónimo said. “But oh well. Not our Templar problem to worry about.” 

Adi shook his head. 

He wondered idly about Élise and if she was alright. He didn’t know she had a stepbrother.

Ah, he shouldn’t worry about it. 

It’s not like Adi will see her or the step-brother ever again.   
  


* * *

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thank you to the bene squad and to @ratonnhhaketon, who has been a patient listener to my ideas at any hour. Thank you so much! If y'all like Connor Kenway and Red Dead Redemption 2, Liz has some great fic written for them! I don't know how to link profiles in the a/n so:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratonnhhaketon/pseuds/ratonnhhaketon
> 
> Thanks for reading! I love comments so if y'all enjoyed, please leave one! I will try to update regularly if there's enough interest.


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